


Perhaps the Day After

by Anonymous



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by The Accidental Warlord and His Pack Series - inexplicifics, the most indulgent bullshit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:15:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27357871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: A new and mysterious bard makes her way to the halls of Kaer Morhen, secrets on her tongue and ice in her eyes.(Set in the Accidental Warlord and His Pack universe by inexplicifics)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 78





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I Have Heart-Fire and Singing to Give](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24247423) by [inexplicifics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics). 



There’s a bard at the gates of Kaer Morhen. This is not as entirely unprecedented as the first one was, the now lark of the keep. Especially because Jaskier had offered invitation to a few of his friends and former classmates at Oxenfurt, before he managed to get kidnapped. No, the strange thing was that they didn’t have any warning. Not from Witchers on patrol, from mages in the capital cities. Not even from the townsfolk at the little town at the bottom of the path. 

It seemed to the Witchers on the parapets that they had merely blinked, and then there was someone at the gates. One of the newest Crane Witchers, a spindly lad even by their standards, raised a crossbow to the ready, so startled was he. The stranger smiles and gives a bow of great grace. 

“Hail and well met, Witchers of Kaer Morhen.” comes a voice as clear and soothing as a stream in summer. “I am Maggie de Lyria, a jongleur.”

“What the hell is that?” shouts down the Crane, his bow lowered but still a bit twitchy. She laughs at the question, reaches behind her back to pull out a stringed instrument, strumming a simple, pleasant tune. 

“Forgive me, we’re mostly called bards now. There used to be a distinction. So quickly do the sands of time flow.” she says the last sentence more to herself then the guards. 

They glance at each other, and shrug. There’s not standing orders on what to do if a bard comes. She doesn’t seem very dangerous, but then again, neither does Jaskier, until he says something utterly eviscerating. They send that Crane down the steps, partly to hassle him and partly to examine their visitor more closely. By sight and more importantly, by smell. 

Maggie de Lyria is younger than might be expected, from the confidence in her voice. Not yet forty, and likely closer to thirty. She’s dressed in a doublet and trousers of slightly glimmering silver, though her shoes are battered and road-broken. Her hair is a caramel brown, braided meticulously and draped over her shoulders. 

Her eyes are downright eerie. Maybe that’s a bit of stone-throwing, given his own recently-acquired cat eyes, but these send a shiver down his spine. They’re permafrost blue, cold and unyielding, and though from the movement it’s clear that she can see, it doesn’t feel like she’s looking at him. 

“I swear not to harm anyone here, but you’re going to have to learn to read the situation better, Eoin. Someday you’ll encounter people far more serious than me.” she says, jovial but knowing. He yelps and skitters back up, telling the other guard about her promise, which did ring with honesty. 

They open the gates. 

* * *

Jaskier all but jumps the stairs when he hears there’s another musical soul in the keep. It’s politically advantageous, to have someone a little less personally biased feel safe enough to perform in front of Witchers. To spread stories of their time here, spread credibility that the Witchers were heroes instead of monsters. That’s not his primary reason for excitement though. He craves a learned opinion, someone to bounce lyrics and composition ideas of off, someone to help him tune his skills as finely as his lute. 

He has to skid to a halt when he finally arrives, panting and out of breath. A hand is placed on his shoulder, a tip of the head in place of a full bow. 

“It is a pleasure and a joy to meet you, Jaskier of Kaer Morhen. Wolf lover, Consort, and likely the greatest bard of a generation.” The words are said steady and clear, almost like a pronouncement. 

“Flattery will get you everywhere.” he says with a breathy laugh. He pulls back a little, having recovered from the exertion. “And whom do I have the pleasure and joy of meeting in return?” he asks, doesn’t recognize her from his time as a student. They’ve definitely never slept together, not because she’s older, he’s gone for many women more experienced of the world. He just would certainly have written a song about her beauty if he had. He’s written a lot of love songs for people who don’t even think of him. Jaskier has to admit, having a love that’s actually requited is dizzying in its intensity. 

“Maggie de Lyria.” she says, simply and plainly, but his jaw drops anyhow. 

“Not _the_ Maggie de Lyria? The one who battled the students of Oxenfurt to weeping and shame? The one who causes professors to shiver in their boots to this day? Composer of ballads of heartbreak and eternal love? The reason that courts across the continent installed pianos, for the hope they might lure you to them? Mysterious, iconic, legendary Maggie de Lyria?”

“Now who’s the flatterer? Inveigling, even. If I were to away with you, I suspect my pay would be greatly improved. But I’ll restrain myself, lest the wolves find me prey for the trouble.” she says, her gaze drifting over to Aubry, who had caught up with only the barest increase of speed. She gives another slight nod of acknowledgement, respectful and unobtrusive.

“Probably wise.” he agrees, his smile sunshine bright and love tender. He’s had enough of the outside world for a bit. Imprisonment was quite the damper on the wandering spirit, and he’s very content in his life here. A good audience and true love can keep him sustained for some time. “How long do you wish to stay here? I would be thrilled to make myself your host indefinitely.” he says, and is only slightly joking. A bard of this caliber would really drive home that the inhabitants of Kaer Morhen were far from uncivilized. 

“It’s an extremely tempting offer, oh poisonous flower. Alas that my previous commitments must make this wayside a brief one. No more than a month can I spare.”

“Then a month you shall have, during which I might tempt you further. Would you wish to compose with me? Or perhaps you prefer rest, weary of the road?”

“I would not wish to waste such an opportunity even were I dead on my feet. Though a cushioned seat would be of great consolation.” 

“That, I can surely manage.” he says, and they make their way to his bedroom, though to call it that is somewhat disingenuous, since he’s hardly used it for the bed in over a year. 

Maggie makes herself comfortable on his chaise, strumming her Southern lute, six stringed instead of four. It’s more somber somehow, even on warm-up scales, and where her pauses naturally settle betray her pianist origins. Jaskier hardly pauses at all on his, blurs one note to another easy and expected. 

“Do you bother with the chromatic?” she asks, and he’s tempted to lie a little, but she isn’t his teacher, so he confesses.

“Sometimes, but I always drop a note or five.” Thankfully, she finds this amusing, rather than a disappointment. 

“I’ve never had that trouble, but I’ll admit the redundancy can make it a dull thing, even for warmups. Let us be grateful we aren’t primarily players of wind instruments, in need of con-stant ar-tic-u-la-tion.” The worst of his nerves fizzle with his laughter. 

The boon of another expert is tremendous, even with their creative differences. On musical composition, Maggie will always favor a shift to a minor key, the long pause for tension building, the type of build to a climax that winds back and forth, serpentine. In lyrics, she’s ardent in the validity of second person perspective, and far more accepting of slant rhymes than he ever allows for himself. But she never takes his refusal to offense, not even to dramatically repine, as bards are want to do. It has him feeling off, somehow, as if he’s treading on trapped tiles. He can feel his conversation has a formality he doesn’t usual tend to outside performance, in song or in court. He’s not the only one to notice. 

“You need not be so cautious around me. We are colleagues of similar caliber, if far different genres. I may not agree with all your creative decisions, but I’ll hardly denounce them. Besides, you are crafting for an audience of Witchers first, and are thus the expert, I would say.” she points out, which makes a certain amount of sense. 

“There’s something to be said of seniority. I won’t deny my own talent, but it’s still a raw one. You’ve had years, _decades_ , to refine yours. It seems impertinent, somehow, to think I know better.” 

Jaskier is darling in a bit of cheek, in innuendo and small slights, in indulgent schadenfreude against the bloated sycophants of Oxenfurt. But he is no longer a mere student, a minor noble with limited options. He’s one of the most powerful men on the continent, if only by fluke and marriage, and he’s becoming all too aware that standards have shifted. That he is graded on multiple axises, appeasement chief among them. 

The person sitting across from him could not have achieved such infamy without that awareness, without careful application of political groveling. She called him potentially the greatest bard of a generation, and he took it as a joke, but perhaps. Perhaps he’s lost the freedom to be heckled, called out for his own bullshit, taken down a peg. If he’s not careful, maybe he’ll become like the faculty he’d despised, puffed up and self-important. He’s so very indulged here in Kaer Morhen, lightly teased but hardly ever confronted. 

“Jaskier, please extricate yourself from this spiral. Doubt does not suit you.” says a voice that is soothing but implacable. “You know yourself, your audience, your intent and your Path. Everything else is just details. I admire your certainty and commitment. It took me far longer to accept who I was, and to not find it wanting.”

“But you’re wonderful!” Even the most fervent of her naysayers made no question of her skill. More often insinuation came at her moral character, but that was worth little, to a rowdy crowd of entertainers. The fact that the administration thought any one of them might care the gender of her bedmates was a testament to how behind the times they were. 

“I know. But I didn’t always think so. Flaws have a way of magnifying themselves in one’s mind, until one feels the hideous pock marks of the soul. If my many years of performing have taught me anything, it is this. Enemies and enmity will find you, there’s no need to make yourself among them.” she says, and it’s wisdom enough that even Aubry makes a small sound of agreement. 

“Not that you shouldn’t be open to criticism. For instance, _you_ suffer the assumption of incredible lung capacity. A breath mark or two won’t kill the mood, Jaskier.” she chides, and he laughs. 

The little chalk marks seem to him like hands reaching up for assistance, but perhaps that’s just the fancy of a poet.

Two musicians play on into the afternoon.

* * *

Eskel hears about the new bard through the grapevine, there’s rumors of intimidation among the expected qualities of pretty and dramatic. A spine of steel will do her good, he thinks, and puts all other thoughts aside as he examines the grain yields. 

At supper, he sees Maggie for the first time, a streak of silver at his lark’s side, infusing his already honey-sweet scent with more happiness, joy and popping excitement. She too has happiness in her scent, as well as snow and a bit of dust from her travels. No fear, which is surprising and a tad gratifying. Even those who have good impressions of Witchers might be slightly nervous in a hall filling up with them. 

“Little lark’s new plaything?” comes a grumble from behind, from Geralt. He’s the usual, blood and sweat from training, love and happiness and amusement from them. Eskel has to kiss some of it from his lips, and Geralt doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest. 

“More like idol. Apparently she’s somewhat famous in bardic circles.” 

“Hm.” Geralt rumbles, smoothing down his shirt. “Guess I better make the proper introductions.” he says, making his way over to the pair.

Very few Witchers know what pure hatred smells like, it’s so often tangled with fear and cowardice and blood. That night, they learn. Hatred smells like ash and rot, like the unpleasant edge of certain sicknesses. This particular expression is so strong that they feel like they can taste it at the back of the mouths. Yet still, the owner smiles, and if they couldn’t smell it they wouldn’t be able to tell at all what she felt. 

“It is an honor to meet you, White Wolf, Warlord of the North, ruler of Kovir, Caingorn, Kaedwen, half of Aedirn, two-thirds of Redania and Temeria, Geralt of Rivia.” Maggie de Lyria says, with the most courtly of bows he’s ever witnessed. Without seeming to take notice of the deadly silence she’s created, the way Eskel has crept close, just in case she tries something. Geralt can defend himself, but gods, there’s _power_ in hatred that strong. 

“Hm. Given me more honors than I’ve earned.” Geralt states, absolutely astonishingly, given that he must be feeling the brunt of that putrid feeling, aimed as surely at him as a dagger to the heart. 

“You will soon enough.” she says, without hesitation or fluster for the mistake. 

“Not from Rivia.”

“I know. You used to say you were, when you were on the Path.” 

That’s true, actually. Eskel remembers that, because Geralt used to be a pretty common name, and just calling him Geralt the Witcher didn’t sit well. He choose somewhere on the map that might, in theory, be where he came from. Once he picked up White Wolf, and a few less flattering epithets, he stopped using it. It was decades ago, almost half a century now. 

“How come I’ve never heard of this?” Jaskier asks, and amusement smothers some of the stink of hatred in her scent. 

“It’s hardly the most impressive of titles for his Majesty.” That’s a new one. People often call Geralt ‘milord’, before they realize he doesn’t like those kinds of honorifics. No one’s ever referred to him as if he were a king. Even though, technically, he is. “Besides, I think it likely the White Wolf prefer his past stay passed.” she says, with seeming significance that Eskel, well trained in the art of reading the near expressionless Geralt, can tell he does not know of. He is as throughly confused by her hatred as the rest of them. 

“Forgive me, it seems the exhaustion of my travels has finally caught up with me.” Lie. “I will supper in my lodgings. Worry not, I shall earn my bread on the morrow, if the Witchers should find my performance welcome.”

“Of course they would! Maybe hold back a little though. You wouldn’t want to have them weeping on the first night.” he says, teasing and jovial and light. Unaware of the unseen menace. 

“When placed like that, I must consider it a challenge.” she says in return, and Eskel clears his throat. 

“I’ll walk you to the guest room. Have to pick something up from over there anyway.” 

“It would be an honor.” she says with another bow, only slightly less courtly than the one given Geralt, but far more genuine. The hatred doesn’t extend to him, hell to any of the other Witchers, Aubrey would’ve said. Probably she wouldn’t have made it past the gate. It’s a very alarming puzzle. 

“Worry not, Eskel Amber-Eyed.” Maggie says, once they’ve made their way out of the dining hall. Out of earshot of Jaskier, if not the other Witchers. “I will bring no harm to your beloved lord, nor to your lark. However, I suggest you and your company keep confidence of my feelings regarding the White Wolf. For if Jaskier asks the truth of me, I will tell him. I do not wish to distress him with such things.” she says, as he’s left in stunned silence as they ascend the steps towards the guest room, just across the hall from Jaskier’s own quarters.

Eskel is wracking his brain, trying to figure out what injustice Geralt could possibly have wrought on this woman. Of course, he doesn’t know everything ever done by the Witcher, but they talked every winter in Kaer Morhen, and he would’ve said if he’d earned himself a blood feud, or such similar. 

“What did he do that was so heinous?” he finally manages to ask, as she opens the door. She turns, looks over her shoulder, and even he, battle worn and near fearless, feels the urge to shudder.

“He hurt someone I love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: jaskier deserves some more musical friends  
> also me: i'm about to end geralt's whole fucking career
> 
> thank you to inexplicfics for being so generous to allow anyone to play a bit of merry havoc in their universe


	2. Performance

“Damn Buttercup! You’re not the most vicious bard here anymore, that’s for sure.” Lambert declares, striding over and wrapping an arm around his shoulders, almost as if to console him. 

“I know court etiquette isn’t your forte, Lambert, but that was hardly vicious.” It was nearly incomprehensible to him, but that was on brand. Maggie de Lyria would come to your feasting hall, play beautiful and heart wrenching music, and make ominous and vague statements to the assembled gentry. Geralt was no exception, it seemed. 

"Shit, what’s going on in Redania that you don’t think that was fucking aggressive? I’m getting a second opinion.” he says, going to retrieve Milena, sparing her a kiss, which is still unreasonably adorable. “Hey Milena, what did you think of Jaskier’s new shiny companion?”

“She’s rather pretty, and likely quick-witted to have Jaskier so entranced in conversation. But I didn’t have the opportunity to speak with her before she left.” she says, carefully diplomatic. She can probably see the threads of an argument, and participation in the betting pool has made her more shrewd at gathering information before picking a side. 

“It’s Maggie de Lyria.” Jaskier says, hoping for recognition, and he receives it with wide eyes. 

“Oh, I’ve heard of her. She performed in our halls, once, when I was young. Too young to remember, but my sister Marika said she was very strange, even for a bard. She called her Griffin-bound, and played her a song about a princess and a stable boy. It was the first time anyone had ever really seen her, in a formal court setting. I believe it stuck with her deeply.” she says, a hint of the sadness of separation. Lambert picks up on it too, laces their fingers together and pulls her a little closer to his side. 

“Look, neither of you has noses worth smelling shit, but Geralt, you’ve got to agree with me!” Lambert protests, pulling the White Wolf out of a quiet and intense conversation with Eskel that has him frowning. Jaskier sees hint of unhappiness in both wolves, curls himself in Geralt’s lap with his arms around his neck. 

“What’s troubling you, my loves?” 

“Nothing serious, catmint. Just talking about what we’re to do with your guest. Never hosted a bard that wasn’t you.” Eskel says.

“Oh well, it won’t be too strenuous. We’re a self-sufficient bunch. No honors to be observed or anything like that. _I_ shall have to work on coordinating a proper set list, managing the mood, maybe setting up a few duets. The gallichon isn’t an instrument I’ve studied, so I am a bit worried about getting the harmonies right.” he says, pulls out his little slate and makes shorthand notes to the effect. “But you shouldn’t have to do anything, besides offer basic hospitality and to listen to her performance. That should be a treat, tragedies are my weak point.” he says, and though he’s grateful to have not lived hard enough for sorrow, it is a creative gap. He’ll likely find inspiration as the years tick by, life cannot always be blessed even for someone as lucky as him. 

“Hm. Not sure how much we’ll enjoy that.” Geralt says, and Jaskier supposes that’s a fair hesitation. They’re so used to his particular brand of performance, which is upbeat even when it isn’t strictly happy. But he’s heard her songs before, from lesser imitators, and it still hit him like a blow. 

“Trust me, my wolf. There are some things worth a little discomfort.”

* * *

Eskel will never deny there are many subjects that Jaskier knows more than him on, etiquette, diplomacy, music of course. But when it comes to his own self preservation, well. He’s all too aware of the recency of their kidnapping, still feels the sting of failure from not protecting him. Maggie is not a threat in the way Eskel was ever trained to counter, and he can’t stand the thought of leaving her alone with his lark. Not without some sort of plan. 

His mornings are taken up with Ciri’s lessons, thank Melitele. He’s able to get Triss to ask Jaskier for potion help, even though she doesn’t wholly need it at the moment, and put together an impromptu Council meeting to jointly take up most of the afternoon. In the scant few hours before supper, he instructs Aubry to be especially on guard, and to report anything that might prove useful in understanding her further.

All he learns that day is her intention to perform first. Eskel braces himself for the wall of hatred when she enters, but there is none. Well, not none, it’s still in her scent plainly enough, but it’s an undertone now, something to be looked for. She catches his eye and smiles, putting a finger to her lips. 

Maggie sits far down the Wolf table, by Aubry, who is steadfast in his observation, and so he’s able to listen to Ciri’s stories of mischief and Jaskier’s time with Triss and almost relax. Then, she steps to the head of the table, lute in hand.

“Good evening, Witchers of Kaer Morhen! I am Maggie de Lyria, and this is the Shadow of Kaedwen. It’s a song I’ve not had to perform for many years, and for that, you have my thanks.” she declares, clear and loud and entrancing. She begins to strum her lute, a low, ominous pattern. 

“Hush, hush, the monster is near. Hush, hush, show not your fear. Hush, hush, hide all that glitters. Hush, hush, smile past the jitters. Hush, hush, bow low and bow deep. Hush, hush, then maybe you’ll keep. Hush, hush, your daughters, your wives. Hush, hush, from his poisonous eyes.” she sings, stalking around the hall, bending low and making use of the echo to repeat the chant. 

“Hail! Hail! The King is here! Gracing our township on route from war. Sound off the trumpets, for he is triumphant. Honor our leader, he’s here. (Hush, hush.)” she suddenly jumps into an over-loud announcement, startling the Cats she’s near, but the flash of their daggers doesn’t heed her at all. 

“An imposing man, upon his black steed. He takes what he wishes, but don’t call it greed. An empire spirit, he prefer it be graced, and that’s what we’ll tell him, at least to his face.” she says, wry, ironic. Acting. 

“Hush, hush, the monster is near. Hush, hush, show not your fear. Hush, hush, hide all that glitters. Hush, hush, smile past the jitters. Hush, hush, bow low and bow deep. Hush, hush, then maybe you’ll keep. Hush, hush, your daughters, your wives. Hush, hush, from his poisonous eyes.” Nobody’s singing along as of yet, but a few mouth along with the chorus. 

“As the company leaves, your faces go slack. You take a head count, you hope you’re intact. You hope that this year, it won’t end in tears. You beg and you wish and you pray!” she wails the last word, makes a discordant note on the lute that has them all wincing. 

“But alas, there’s one lass. Young, naive, barely fifteen. On her way to the bakery to pick up some bread. Was it her hair or her eyes or the way that she tread? It matters not, for you know she is dead.

Yet this is the silence you observe most of all. When preparations fail, and her family falls. You’ll say it was sickness or say nothing at all. Hush, hush.” Maggie gets ever quieter with each word, until the last two are nothing more than hoarse whisper. 

It’s strange, how a song can transport you. Eskel was there when the monstrous king of Kaedwen was killed, had his blood on his shoes. He knows this is a chapter long closed. Yet he feels the urge to sharpen his blade once more, to destroy the monster who destroyed this town. To do what Witchers are made for.

Jaskier is the first one to clap, not the uproarious things that accompany his songs, more muted, almost formal. The others follow his lead, and she takes a bow. 

“I thank you, one and all. I’ve never been so grateful to retire a song. Indeed, all of you have made my composition process far more difficult. You have brought joy and peace and justice to the continent. Heroes of the North, may you make my name an irrelevant one, and instead usher in those like Jaskier, the greatest bard of a generation!” she announces, and Eskel sees him pinking, smells his scent spiking with happiness and embarrassment both as he comes to replace her, launching into a comic song. 

Well, fuck. Eskel really has no clue what this woman’s motivations are. She thinks the Witchers heroes, their cause noble and just. She seems to adore Jaskier nearly as much as they do. But still, the foul poison of her hatred for Geralt lingers, unvoiced and festering. She’s promised not to bring harm to them, to not even speak of it unless they should break the silence first. 

What more can he do, but be vigilant?

* * *

“Do you really wish to become irrelevant?” Jaskier asks the next day, as the two simultaneously compose in Maggie’s quarters, which are mostly a mirror of his own. It’s been nagging at him since the previous night, it seems so antithetical to the purpose of bards, to their ambitions. 

“Yes, I do. I want my songs to become historical, rather than political. Already, my earlier works are tending that way. The sacking of Lyria, my once home.” she says, a distant pain in her eyes. There’s not much in the way of kingdom in Lyria or Rivia anymore, most of the noble lines obliterated in the Nilfgaardian war. It retains independence by luck and lack of sufficient reason to acquire it. 

“But only the Witchers, wise of the world and indomitable. Only they can change the character of the continent to a significant degree. Perhaps one day, the cruelty we find commonplace will seem near incomprehensible.” Maggie says, hopeful in a way Jaskier has never thought to dream. “Until such a time, I will be the voice of the suffered and solemn.”

“Ah, and what a beautiful voice it is.” he croons, and she laughs, high and chime-like. 

“You are an impossible flirt, Jaskier. Have you crafted another love song for performance?”

“That depends. Do you have one to match?”

“One, I have something that might suit.”

* * *

“Have you ever fallen? Not from height nor from hale. Fallen for someone, to no avail. Their friendship is precious, a gem beyond shine. Yet sometimes you covet. Oh, I wish you were mine.

It wasn’t love at first sight, you’re not that type of fool. It grew like a tree, small at first, barely seen. Wrapped a vine ‘round your heart and squeezed. You can’t even mind the bleed. 

You know one day they’ll marry, and you’ll be at their side. Make a toast, hear the vows, watch the ribbon go round their wrist. Your fists will be hidden from sight, on that lovely night. 

Until then, you are friends, you’ll have drinks and repine. And you’ll pine. There is love, why can’t it be enough for you? By their side. All your life.

Have you ever fallen? Not from height nor from hale. Fallen for someone, to no avail. Their friendship is precious, a gem beyond shine. Yet always you’ll covet. Oh, I wish you were mine.”

* * *

It is two nights later when she sings it. Eskel listens, and aches, and thinks that this will be a very long month. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no i am not a musician but that will not stop me from having a good time


	3. Titanic

It’s contextually obvious that Kaer Morhen’s newest guest is bathing, because she smells nice enough, emotional factors aside. Nobody actually bathes with her until a week into her visitation. Not Jaskier or Eskel or any other Witcher, but Ciri. She creeps into the springs in the extremely early morning, well before the sun, having crafted a new and inspired version of the goose trick. She’s giggling to herself as she slips off her clothes and goes towards one of the middle pools. 

“Somebody seems amused.” A voice says, and Ciri stumbles a little bit, manages to right herself just before she slips.

Maggie is perched carefully on the edge of one of the higher pools, the one just above Jas’ preferred spot. Her brown hair is made darker with wet, and her eyes glint like gems in the low light. She reminds Ciri of illustrations of sirens, appealing and dangerous. Though her teeth aren’t so sharp when she smiles. 

“Forgive me, my lady, I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

“Well, you did.” she says, finds it comes out more petulant than she’d prefer. She’s far from grown, but she’s not a baby. She can handle a mild scare. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same, Princess, though I shan’t, for fear of my own implication. To the actual answer, I have insomnia. I’ve found a bath can sometimes lure sleepiness to my side once more, and it keeps me out of the way, when the Witchers are round.”

“Do you not like Witchers?” Ciri asks. She’s noticed that her Papa and Uncle Eskel can get a bit tense around Maggie, even though Jaskier seems to like her a lot. 

“On the contrary, I think Witchers a fine people. Their opinion of myself may not be so high.”

“Why? Your songs are kind of sad, and you talk pretty old-fashioned, but you don’t seem mean.” she says, bluntly honest as she paddles around. Maggie chuckles, reaching down a pool to trace patterns in the water. 

“A fine assessment, Lady Ciri. No, I find little pleasure in viciousness, as Jaskier may occasionally delight. What I am is loyal, even past the point of reasonableness.” she says, and then pauses, considering. 

“Do you know much about your Papa before he became Warlord of the North?”

“Not really. I know he used to hunt monsters, like all Witchers do, and that he used to do it alone. He doesn’t talk about it much.”

“No, I imagine he wouldn’t. Your father was always good-hearted. He tried to help people, to save people. But he was flawed, could even be cruel without meaning it.”

“I can’t imagine Papa being cruel.” He wasn’t even like that to his enemies, tried to spare life where possible. Didn’t take joy in killing. 

“Ah, but he wasn’t your Papa back then. He was not even the White Wolf. He was Geralt of Rivia, special even among Witchers, and hated all the more for it. His gentleness was a vulnerability he was desperate to hide.”

“Did you know him?” she asks. Maggie looks young, but so does Triss and Aunt Yen, and lots of the Witchers, so that doesn’t mean she actually is. 

“No, I didn’t. I never met him, not until I came here. But I had a friend who knew him, and the story ended sadly.” she says, biting her lip and looking away, clearly saddened herself. Ciri knows how to drop a subject, though not necessarily how to change it. Not outside of the keep, anyway. 

“How’d you get that scar on your shoulder?” she asks, pointing to the whitened round mark. Witchers love to brag about their scars. Maggie’s eyes twinkle with amusement.

“You have an eye for a good story. I acquired this escaping a burning tower. I was able to avoid the lick of flames at my feet, but I neglected to think how metal doesn’t show its heat so plainly, and I leaned again a door with an iron ring as I rested. It was painful then, but feels appropriate in retrospect. A reminder that my long imprisonment was over.”

“Why would somebody lock up a bard?” It seems cruel, like forcing a songbird to sing in a cage. Jaskier sings best when he’s free to move, to dance and swoop and make merry. 

“I wasn’t a bard then. I was a girl. A pretty one, with some value. You will come to learn, young Princess Ciri, far too soon, how very lucky you are to have Geralt as your Papa.” she says, plain and true. 

“You’re kind of weird.” Ciri says. “But I like you. Will you sing a song for me the next time you perform?”

“It would be an honor and my pleasure to do so.”

* * *

“This song is a new creation, for the Lady Cirilla, cub of the White Wolf and menace of Kaer Morhen. This is Son of the Gwenllech. Please forgive the historical inaccuracies, for it is all in good fun.”

“Once upon a time, the river had a son. He was swift, he was bright, his laughter was light. Each night he was cradled and kept. 

In the day, well he played, his white stone eyes wide. He leapt from the cliffs, ran down mountainside. The trees and the animals were fond and afeared. For the motives of rivers are rarely clear. 

For many years, he reigned without challenge. Not a king, but a prince of the brooks. Prideful as he, it matched him well, unaware that his goose would be cooked!

Along came a wizard, a powerful mage. In an abandoned keep from the eldest of days, he would raise his mighty warriors. But where, oh where, would they make themselves clean? From the blood and the sweat, the ichor that wept from their blades. 

The river, the mother, at the base of the keep, you’d think she would suit, but she was deep, aye, and fast! Never mind the path to her banks was steep, and that winter stole her still. 

The mountain stream, the son, was of far greater acclaim, but fickle and wild, he moved place to place. The warriors’ chase was a quest all its own, and the mage’s temper was ground to the bone.

‘Enough! I offer a race, my fleetest warrior against thine flow. If he is felled low, I will give the power of thy very own name, as great as the mightiest of the continent’s plains. If failure comes for thee, then in service be pressed, for as long as the mountain stands.’

The river son agreed to terms, for he knew no man could beat him in speed, not even ones as modified as these. This was a truth both parties acknowledged, but the challenger had a key. 

In the caves beneath Kaer Morhen, the warriors carved pools and troughs. Easily stepped through by the paces of men, but for water would swirl and slosh. 

It worked as expected, and for all of his flaws, the river son kept to his word. To this day he serves the warriors’ keep, the Witchers well-earned bathe. But concede though he did, he hardly behaves. His anger keeps the water scaling hot, and he claws and bites at the rocks, scattering minerals in his wake. 

Oh, woe are we, in the eyes of he, to be tormented to such a Fate. Keep him believing, say I, say I, at least for his sake!”

* * *

A fortnight into her visit, Geralt thinks he and the Lyrian bard have reached, well. Not an accord, exactly, they haven’t had a direct, meaningful conversation since the first night. But an unspoken understanding. Maggie is genuinely kind to the rest of the keep, Witchers and servants both, has Jaskier thriving and invigorated, performs well, and is perfectly civil with the White Wolf himself, on words alone. As long as he keeps distance, doesn’t pry at her reasons for despising him, then her hatred will remain an unpleasant but manageable undertone. 

So naturally, he manages to screw the whole thing up. 

“Geralt!” His lark calls, rushing across the hallway to press a kiss on his cheek and twitter. “I finally managed to get the chorus of Lost at Oxenfurt to cooperate, without changing the second line or resorting to a slant! Maggie reminded me about formal pronouns, and it’s perfect thematically with other Wolf Rising songs. Not that this is a Wolf Rising song, but then Shani can do a reprise from the students point of view without upsetting the tone. Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Hm. Sounds good.” he says, not entirely clear on specifics, but anything that keeps him happy is good. 

“Well, it is Jaskier. An obsessive perfectionist on his best of days.” Maggie remarks, a few paces back, giving a slight, formal bow. 

“I’m in such a great mood that I’m going to graciously ignore that.” he says, though the tinniest peek of his tongue from his lips somewhat ruins the effect. 

“How magnanimous of you.” 

“I’d be downright benevolent if you agreed to stay.” Geralt’s eye twitches a little at the thought. If it were just him, he’d be willing to put up with almost anything for his lark’s happiness. But it wouldn’t be fair to ask the others to accept such a hostile scent, mild as it mostly remains. 

“You’ve made good on your promises to entice me, poisonous flower, but I must stand firm. Kaer Morhen isn’t the place for me.”

“Perhaps not this year, but you’ll retire one day, won’t you?”

“I don’t plan on it. I will keep singing until the powers that be cuts my strings or my throat.” she says, smiling. As if what she’s insinuated is a statement worth standing. 

“I wouldn’t do that.” he growls, and something in her glassy calm shatters. 

“Oh no, not now. You’re soooo happy these days. With your lark and your shadow and your keep full of heroic Witchers, saving the continent from vice and sin.” she says, a high and mocking tone to match the hatred cresting in her scent. “I am grateful, for the suffering you’ve avenged and the peace you’ve made. For the fear of your ire carousing the other leaders into something like decency, if only to keep their own heads. I don’t deny all the good that you’ve done, Warlord of the North.” 

“But before you were the White Wolf, you were Geralt of Rivia. A man I will never forgive.” she declares, turns on her heels and storms away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i promise i won't write any more garbage songs  
> also dun dun dun


	4. Daybreak

“Geralt.” Jaskier breathes out, still mostly dumbstruck from the sudden turn of events, the messy revelation. “She _hates_ you, doesn’t she? And you knew. How long have you known?” he asks, frantic and desperate. 

“First day. Smells...bad.” he confesses, and it’s clearly one of his taciturn understatements.

“Yet you let me become friends with her?! Admire her, work with her! Why?” he cries, angry, frustrated, hurt. 

“Promised she wouldn’t hurt anyone. Doesn’t have a problem with Witchers. Good publicity. Can’t turn someone away just because they don’t like me. Made you happy.” he says, listing off the reasons, lingering on the last, obviously leagues away from all concerns except safety. 

“Ok. Maybe you couldn’t have thrown her out.” he says, centering himself. Trying to be reasonable, to hear Geralt’s words instead of hurling accusations. This man had part of his heart, he deserves his consideration and his patience. Thin as it is currently stretched. “But you should have told me. I’m the Consort, your _husband_ , my wolf. I will always defend you, even if I could not convince her, I would try. I stand in your corner against the world. Other bards included. My loyalty is forever yours, my love.” he says, his voice raw with devotion. 

“You swore to the White Wolf, but you heard what she said. That’s not who she hates. She hates me. Man I used to be.” he mumbles, and Jaskier realizes that there is another reason, unspoken. Geralt is afraid that he’ll agree.

“Do you know what you did to earn this?”

“No. Never been to Lyria. Queen had monster hunters all her own. Not bad, for humans. Griffins picked up the few contracts after the war.”

“Then I will find it out. I’ll hear her story, her reasons, and whatever she says, I will forgive you. For I know you, I know that even the worst version of you could not do something unforgivable.” he vows, presses his forehead to Geralt’s to make him see the truth in it, smell it up close. 

“Hm.” he hums, the tension in his shoulders slowly unknotting. Kisses an apology, sweet and short. “She’s on the east landing.”

“Thank you.” he says, and begins the trek into battle. 

* * *

Maggie de Lyria is indeed on the east landing, tucked in the corner, and she’s returned her expression to implacable calm once more. 

“You have questions for me.” she says, a statement, not an inquiry. “I’ll preface it all by saying I know. I’m very aware that I’m being unreasonable, irrational. Hysterical, even.” 

“I’m not here to judge. I’m here to listen.” he says, and he will. He’ll hold his tongue until it’s the right moment to counter. If one arises. 

“Very well. Would you let me borrow your lute? I have a song to sing, and it was only ever played on a four-string.” He hands it over wordlessly, 

“The fairer sex, they often call it. But her love's as unfair as a crook. It steals all my reason, commits every treason, of logic, with naught but a look. 

A storm breaking on the horizon, of longing and heartache and lust. She's always bad news. It's always lose, lose. So tell me love, tell me love, how is that just?

But the story is this. She'll destroy with her sweet kiss, her sweet kiss. But the story is this. She'll destroy with her sweet kiss. 

Her current is pulling you closer, and charging the hot, humid night. The red sky at dawn is giving a warning, you fool!

Better stay out of sight. I'm weak my love, and I am wanting. If this is the path I must trudge, I welcome my sentence, give to you my penance, garroter, jury and judge.

But the story is this. She'll destroy with her sweet kiss, her sweet kiss. The story is this. She'll destroy with her sweet kiss.

But the story is this. She'll destroy with her sweet kiss, her sweet kiss. The story is this. She'll destroy with her sweet kiss. The story is this. She'll destroy with her sweet kiss.” 

It’s a heart-wrenching performance, tinged with the bittersweet of unrequited love. It would fit quite well in Maggie’s repertoire, and yet. 

“That’s not one of your songs.”

“No, poisonous flower. This is one of yours.” 

“People think Destiny is a force like gravity, applying constantly, inexorably. But they’re wrong. Destiny is like a river with waypoints. There are some things that must be, that will always occur. But the path there, it can twist in any number of ways.”

“I was born with the ability of foresight. To see potential paths the river might take. I was not given discretion, a knowledge of which we were currently flowing through, nor of scale, when exactly those fixed points would be.”

“As such, I was hardly coherent with my predictions, and my parents thought me mad. It would be a disgrace for a Lyrian duke, to have any daughter, but especially his first, so clearly fae-touched. I was never taken to court. Instead I was sequestered in a tower and quietly killed on the books.”

“For a prison, it was not so bad. I had good food and lodgings, and no cruelty acted upon my person. But I was terribly lonely, so I turned to my visions, to a comforting consistency. Jaskier, destined to be one of the greatest bards of all time. I could listen to your songs, play them on the piano. I could pretend that you were my friend, that I had a person who cared for me.”

“When I was fifteen, Lyria burned. It did not alarm me duly. The Nilgaardian War was one of those inevitable events. I fled, and made my way north.”

“I could not see my own Destiny, so I chose it, as much as anyone can. I vowed that I’d make myself worthy of meeting you, one day. As I worked to that end, I kept an eye on you, and realized there was another inevitably tied up with your fate. You were always to love the White Wolf.”

“Geralt of Rivia, he was mostly called. Despite not actually being from Rivia, an amusing notion. Unique among Witchers, for his mutagens, and his heart, so very gentle at the core. They are hardly monsters, Witchers, but most do have some craving for violence, when it’s deserved. Geralt had none of it. As such, he had to hide that truth, bury it in denial and guilt.”

“You would always find it. Find the hero underneath the lies, the bluster, the unkind words. Always you would follow him, to hell and back. Very rarely was this rewarded.”

“Once, he blamed you for all of his woes, left you on a mountain, heart-broken and alone. That is where Her Sweet Kiss was crafted. Though the reality was that none and all involved were to blame.”

“He never meant to be cruel. Sometimes he didn’t know that you loved him. Other times he knew, but thought he didn’t deserve it. Often, he drove you away, cracked your heart with each parting, until all that was left was rubble.” 

“I’ll admit, you could hardly dream of a better muse. But it never felt fair, how you suffered for him. Even here, in this wonderful path where he has done nothing but love you, I fear for you. I fear there is no peace in this constant. That always you must be hurt.”

It was a lot to process. Maggie’s own origins, unhappy but familiar. This one-sided friendship, it was no wonder she seemed to know him so well from the start. The idea of Destiny, something he’d not considered much, had plans for him. That his love might hurt him, never on purpose, but sometimes to extreme sorrow.

“You said that I was always to love the White Wolf. Did he always love me back?”

“Yes, he did. When and if he knew it, that was a variable. Whether he’d ever tell you, another. If you’d be his only, or affections shared. But no, I’ve never seen a path where it was unrequited.”

“Thank you.”

“What are you thanking me for, Jaskier?”

“For telling me this. For being my friend, long before I knew you. For caring about me. I may not agree with your conclusion, but I understand it. I too would be furious, if I were in your shoes. But surely there was happiness among my heartbreak. Fool that I may be, I do not set out to get myself hurt.”

“Well, actually.” She chuckles, the first bit of humor in her since this conversation began. “There was an attempt at courting once that was, really rather sweet. A very important satchel, misunderstanding abound, and Lambert being an ass. That’s something of a constant as well.”

“I think he’d be proud of that. Don’t suppose you know anything about this future worth saying.”

“There’s no such thing as one future, but if I were to make some educated guesses. Eskel will have his assistant soon, there will be some upset in Temeria in the next couple of years, and Ciri’s second in command will probably be a Cat Witcher.” she says with a smile, and it’s not clear if she’s telling him truth or having him on, but he smiles back. 

“Hopefully one of those is true.” he says, poor Eskel could really use the help. “What about you? What will you do when you leave here?”

“All the usual. I’ll travel, I’ll sing. I’ll encounter strange rumors. Sleep with pretty women. Write sad songs. Keep an eye out for you.”

“Will you write to me?”

“Oh.” she says, clearly surprised. “If you’d like. I did not think you would want me to.” 

“You’re my friend. Of course I’d like to hear of your adventures. And in time, perhaps I can convince you of my Geralt’s good qualities. I’m very persuasive.” he says, a twinkle in his eye, holding out his hand to her.

“Belligerent, more like.” she says, and takes it. “But if anyone can change the tide of history and Destiny both, it would be you.”

* * *

It’s Eskel who escorts Maggie to the gates when the month has ended. He still doesn’t know quite what to make of her, even with an explanation. He’s devoted to Geralt, his shadow, his good right hand. He can hardly believe that any version of Geralt would do harm to their lark. But to be so protective of Jaskier, it’s not something he can fault her for. The White Wolf himself was convinced of her sentiment’s validity, never mind the current inaccuracy. 

“Glad I met you here. Able to love you right. Now I know just how much of a blessing it is.” he’d said, and Jaskier had teared up and curled close, and all was contentment and honey-sweet love.

As the doors creak opened, she turns to him and bows, wearing the same silver outfit she arrived in. 

“I thank you, Eskel Amber-Eyed, for your hospitality and understanding. I will speak well of the White Wolf and his court in my travels, and virulently counter such wicked lies as I find. I will be an ally of your cause, and a friend to Jaskier, above all.”

“I hope your travels are safe, and your coin plentiful, Maggie de Lyria.” he says, an old Witcher saying, adapted to fit. She grins, wide and wild, and hums a tune as she walks away.

“Oh if I could I'd will these clouds away my love. I'd wave my hand, reveal the stars. Oh if I could I'd hold the tide at bay my love. But clouds will come and tides will turn.

Tomorrow, spring will come, and then. There will be blue skies, my friend. Bright eyes and laughter. Tomorrow, there will be sun. But if not tomorrow, perhaps the day after."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aand that's the end folks! thank you all so much for coming along the self-indulgent ride
> 
> the courting story maggie refers to comes from the geraskier fanfic, 'the courting game', which is much better than this and you should absolutely go read if you haven't already! (https://archiveofourown.org/works/23708941/chapters/56928121)
> 
> the lyrics at the end are not mine, it's from the song 'there will be sun' from the groundhog day musical, which also owns, and is where the title came from


End file.
